Chapter 54 - End of the 1980s End of the 1980s End of the 1980s End of the 1980s

The smell of blood works its way into my dreams, which are,for the most part, terrible: on an ocean liner that catches ɹre,witnessing volcanic eruptions in Hawaii, the violent deaths ofmost of the inside traders at Salomon, James Robinson doingsomething bad to me, ɹnding myself back at boarding school,then at Harvard, the dead walk among the living. The dreams arean endless reel of car wrecks and disaster footage, electric chairsand grisly suicides, syringes and mutilated pinup girls, ɻyingsaucers, marble Jacuzzis, pink peppercorns. When I wake up in acold sweat I have to turn on the wide-screen television to blockout the construction sounds that continue throughout the day,rising up from somewhere. A month ago was the anniversary ofElvis Presley's death. Football games ɻash by, the sound turnedoʃ. I can hear the answering machine click once, its volumelowered, then twice. All summer long Madonna cries out to us,"life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone ..."When I'm moving down Broadway to meet Jean, my secretary,for brunch, in front of Tower Records a college student with aclipboard asks me to name the saddest song I know. I tell him,without pausing, "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by theBeatles. Then he asks me to name the happiest song I know, and Isay "Brilliant Disguise" by Bruce Springsteen. He nods, makes anote, and I move on, past Lincoln Center. An accident hashappened. An ambulance is parked at the curb. A pile ofintestines lies on the sidewalk in a pool of blood. I buy a veryhard apple at a Korean deli which I eat on my way to meet Jeanwho, right now, stands at the Sixty-seventh Street entrance toCentral Park on a cool, sunny day in September. When we lookup at the clouds she sees an island, a puppy dog, Alaska, a tulip. Isee, but don't tell her, a Gucci money clip, an ax, a woman cut intwo, a large puʃy white puddle of blood that spreads across thesky, dripping over the city, onto Manhattan.We stop at an outdoor café, Nowheres, on the Upper West Side,debating which movie to see, if there are any museum exhibitswe should attend, maybe just a walk, she suggests the zoo, I'mnodding mindlessly. Jean is looking good, like she's been workingout, and she's wearing a gilt lamé jacket and velvet shorts byMatsuda. I'm imagining myself on television, in a commercial fora new product—wine cooler? tanning lotion? sugarless gum?—and I'm moving in jump-cut, walking along a beach, the ɹlm isblack-and-white, purposefully scratched, eerie vague pop musicfrom the mid-1960s accompanies the footage, it echoes, sounds asif it's coming from a calliope. Now I'm looking into the camera,now I'm holding up the product—a new mousse? tennis shoes?—now my hair is windblown then it's day then night then day againand then it's night."I'll have an iced decaf au lait," Jean tells the waiter."I'll have a decapitated coʃee also," I say absently, beforecatching myself. "I mean ... decaʃeinated." I glance over at Jean,worried, but she just smiles emptily at me. A Sunday Times sits onthe table between us. We discuss plans for dinner tonight, maybe.Someone who looks like Taylor Preston walks by, waves at me. Ilower my Ray-Bans, wave back. Someone on a bike pedals past. Iask a busboy for water. A waiter arrives instead and after that adish containing two scoops of sorbet, cilantro-lemon and vodkalime, are brought to the table that I didn't hear Jean order."Want a bite?" she asks."I'm on a diet," I say. "But thank you.""You don't need to lose any weight," she says, genuinelysurprised. "You're kidding, right? You look great. Very ɹt.""You can always be thinner," I mumble, staring at the traɽc inthe street, distracted by something—what? I don't know. "Look... better.""Well, maybe we shouldn't go out to dinner," she says,concerned. "I don't want to ruin your ... willpower.""No. It's all right," I say. "I'm not ... very good at controlling itanyway.""Patrick, seriously. I'll do whatever you want," she says. "If youdon't want to go to dinner, we won't. I mean—""It's okay," I stress. Something snaps. "You shouldn't fawn overhim...." I pause before correcting myself. "I mean ... me. Okay?""I just want to know what you want to do," she says."To live happily ever after, right?" I say sarcastically. "That'swhat I want." I stare at her hard, for maybe half a minute, beforeturning away. This quiets her. After a while she orders a beer. It'shot out on the street."Come on, smile," she urges sometime later. "You have noreason to be so sad.""I know," I sigh, relenting. "But it's ... tough to smile. Thesedays. At least I ɹnd it hard to. I'm not used to it, I guess. I don'tknow.""That's ... why people need each other," she says gently, tryingto make eye contact while spooning the not inexpensive sorbetinto her mouth."Some don't." I clear my throat self-consciously. "Or, well,people compensate.... They adjust...." After a long pause, "Peoplecan get accustomed to anything, right?" I ask. "Habit does thingsto people."Another long pause. Confused, she says, "I don't know. I guess... but one still has to maintain ... a ratio of more good thingsthan ... bad in this world," she says, adding, "I mean, right?" Shelooks puzzled, as if she ɹnds it strange that this sentence hascome out of her mouth. A blast of music from a passing cab,Madonna again, "life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone ..."Startled by the laughter at the table next to ours, I cock my headand hear someone admit, "Sometimes what you wear to the oɽcemakes all the diʃerence," and then Jean says something and I askher to repeat it."Haven't you ever wanted to make someone happy?" she asks."What?" I ask, trying to pay attention to her. "Jean?"Shyly, she repeats herself. "Haven't you ever wanted to makesomeone happy?"I stare at her, a cold, distant wave of fright washes over me,dousing something. I clear my throat again and, trying to speakwith great purposefulness, tell her, "I was at Sugar Reef the othernight ... that Caribbean place on the Lower East Side ... youknow it—""Who were you with?" she interrupts.Jeanette. "Evan McGlinn.""Oh." She nods, silently relieved, believing me."Anyway ..." I sigh, continuing, "I saw some guy in the men'sroom ... a total ... Wall Street guy ... wearing a one-buttonviscose, wool and nylon suit by ... Luciano Soprani ... a cottonshirt by ... Gitman Brothers ... a silk tie by Ermenegildo Zegnaand, I mean, I recognized the guy, a broker, named Eldridge ...I've seen him at Harry's and Au Bar and DuPlex and Alex Goes toCamp ... all the places, but ... when I went in after him, I saw ...he was writing ... something on the wall above the ... urinal hewas standing at." I pause, take a swallow of her beer. "When hesaw me come in ... he stopped writing ... put away the MontBlanc pen ... he zipped up his pants ... said Hello, Henderson tome ... checked his hair in the mirror, coughed ... like he wasnervous or ... something and ... left the room." I pause again,another swallow. "Anyway ... I went over to use the ... urinal and... I leaned over ... to read what he ... wrote." Shuddering, Islowly wipe my forehead with a napkin."Which was?" Jean asks cautiously.I close my eyes, three words fall from my mouth, these lips:"'Kill ... All ... Yuppies.'"She doesn't say anything.To break the uncomfortable silence that follows, I mention all Ican come up with, which is, "Did you know that Ted Bundy's ɹrstdog, a collie, was named Lassie?" Pause. "Had you heard this?"Jean looks at her dish as if it's confusing her, then back up atme. "Who's ... Ted Bundy?""Forget it," I sigh."Listen, Patrick. We need to talk about something," she says."Or at least I need to talk about something."... where there was nature and earth, life and water, I saw adesert landscape that was unending, resembling some sort ofcrater, so devoid of reason and light and spirit that the mindcould not grasp it on any sort of conscious level and if you cameclose the mind would reel backward, unable to take it in. It was avision so clear and real and vital to me that in its purity it wasalmost abstract. This was what I could understand, this was how Ilived my life, what I constructed my movement around, how Idealt with the tangible. This was the geography around which myreality revolved: it did not occur to me, ever, that people weregood or that a man was capable of change or that the world couldbe a better place through one's taking pleasure in a feeling or alook or a gesture, of receiving another person's love or kindness.Nothing was aɽrmative, the term "generosity of spirit" applied tonothing, was a cliché, was some kind of bad joke. Sex ismathematics. Individuality no longer an issue. What doesintelligence signify? Deɹne reason. Desire—meaningless. Intellectis not a cure. Justice is dead. Fear, recrimination, innocence,sympathy, guilt, waste, failure, grief, were things, emotions, thatno one really felt anymore. Reɻection is useless, the world issenseless. Evil is its only permanence. God is not alive. Lovecannot be trusted. Surface, surface, surface was all that anyonefound meaning in ... this was civilization as I saw it, colossal andjagged ..."... and I don't remember who it was you were talking to ... itdoesn't matter. What does is that you were very forceful, yet ...very sweet and, I guess, I knew then that ..." She places herspoon down, but I'm not watching her. I'm looking out at thetaxis moving up Broadway, yet they can't stop things fromunraveling, because Jean says the following: "A lot of peopleseem to have ..." She stops, continues hesitantly, "lost touch withlife and I don't want to be among them." After the waiter clearsher dish, she adds, "I don't want to get ... bruised."I think I'm nodding."I've learned what it's like to be alone and ... I think I'm in lovewith you." She says this last part quickly, forcing it out.Almost superstitiously, I turn toward her, sipping an Evianwater, then, without thinking, say, smiling, "I love someone else."As if this ɹlm had speeded up she laughs immediately, looksquickly away, down, embarrassed. "I'm, well, sorry ... gosh.""But ..." I add quietly, "you shouldn't be ... afraid."She looks back up at me, swollen with hope."Something can be done about it," I say. Then, not knowingwhy I'd said that, I modify the statement, telling her straight on,"Maybe something can't. I don't know. I've thrown away a lot oftime to be with you, so it's not like I don't care."She nods mutely."You should never mistake aʃection for ... passion," I warnher. "It can be ... not good. It can ... get you into, well, trouble."She's not saying anything and I can suddenly sense her sadness,ɻat and calm, like a daydream. "What are you trying to say?" sheasks lamely, blushing."Nothing. I'm just ... letting you know that ... appearances canbe deceiving."She stares at the Times stacked in heavy folds on the table. Abreeze barely causes it to ɻutter. "Why ... are you telling methis?"Tactfully, almost touching her hand but stopping myself, I tellher, "I just want to avoid any future misconnections." A hardbodywalks by. I notice her, then look back at Jean. "Oh come on,don't look that way. You have nothing to be ashamed of.""I'm not," she says, trying to act casual. "I just want to know ifyou're disappointed in me for admitting this."How could she ever understand that there isn't any way I couldbe disappointed since I no longer ɹnd anything worth lookingforward to?"You don't know much about me, do you?" I ask teasingly."I know enough," she says, her initial response, but then sheshakes her head. "Oh let's just drop this. I made a mistake. I'msorry." In the next instant she changes her mind. "I want to knowmore," she says, gravely.I consider this before asking, "Are you sure?""Patrick," she says breathlessly, "I know my life would be ...much emptier without you ... in it."I consider this too, nodding thoughtfully."And I just can't ..." She stops, frustrated. "I can't pretend thesefeelings don't exist, can I?""Shhh ..."... there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind ofabstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, somethingillusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shakemy hand and feel ɻesh gripping yours and maybe you can evensense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am notthere. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself isfabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. Mypersonality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deepand is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeareda long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist.There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common withthe uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all themayhem I have caused and my utter indiʃerence toward it, Ihave now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleaktruth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless.Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have somevalidity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? Mypain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better worldfor anyone. In fact I want my pain to be inɻicted on others. Iwant no one to escape. But even after admitting this—and I have,countless times, in just about every act I've committed—andcoming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gainno deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can beextracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tellyou any of this. This confession has meant nothing....I'm asking Jean, "How many people in this world are like me?"She pauses, carefully answers, "I don't ... think anyone?" She'sguessing."Let me rephrase the ques—Wait, how does my hair look?" Iask, interrupting myself."Uh, ɹne.""Okay. Let me rephrase the question." I take a sip of her drybeer. "Okay. Why do you like me?" I ask.She asks back, "Why?""Yes," I say. "Why.""Well ..." A drop of beer has fallen onto my Polo shirt. Shehands me her napkin. A practical gesture that touches me."You're ... concerned with others," she says tentatively. "That's avery rare thing in what"—she stops again—"is a ... I guess, ahedonistic world. This is ... Patrick, you're embarrassing me." Sheshakes her head, closing her eyes."Go on," I urge. "Please. I want to know.""You're sweet." She rolls her eyes up. "Sweetness is ... sexy ... Idon't know. But so is ... mystery." Silence. "And I think ...mystery ... you're mysterious." Silence, followed by a sigh. "Andyou're ... considerate." She realizes something, no longer scared,stares at me straight on. "And I think shy men are romantic.""How many people in this world are like me?" I ask again. "DoI really appear like that?""Patrick," she says. "I wouldn't lie.""No, of course you wouldn't ... but I think that ..." My turn tosigh, contemplatively. "I think ... you know how they say no twosnowɻakes are ever alike?"She nods."Well, I don't think that's true. I think a lot of snowɻakes arealike ... and I think a lot of people are alike too."She nods again, though I can tell she's very confused."Appearances can be deceiving," I admit carefully."No," she says, shaking her head, sure of herself for the ɹrsttime. "I don't think they are deceiving. They're not.""Sometimes, Jean," I explain, "the lines separating appearance—what you see—and reality—what you don't—become, well,blurred.""That's not true," she insists. "That's simply not true.""Really?" I ask, smiling."I didn't use to think so," she says. "Maybe ten years ago Ididn't. But I do now.""What do you mean?" I ask, interested. "You used to?"... a ɻood of reality. I get an odd feeling that this is a crucialmoment in my life and I'm startled by the suddenness of what Iguess passes for an epiphany. There is nothing of value I can oʃerher. For the ɹrst time I see Jean as uninhibited; she seemsstronger, less controllable, wanting to take me into a new andunfamiliar land—the dreaded uncertainty of a totally diʃerentworld. I sense she wants to rearrange my life in a signiɹcant way—her eyes tell me this and though I see truth in them, I alsoknow that one day, sometime very soon, she too will be locked inthe rhythm of my insanity. All I have to do is keep silent aboutthis and not bring it up—yet she weakens me, it's almost as ifshe's making the decision about who I am, and in my ownstubborn, willful way I can admit to feeling a pang, somethingtightening inside, and before I can stop it I ɹnd myself almostdazzled and moved that I might have the capacity to accept,though not return, her love. I wonder if even now, right here inNowheres, she can see the darkening clouds behind my eyeslifting. And though the coldness I have always felt leaves me, thenumbness doesn't and probably never will. This relationship willprobably lead to nothing ... this didn't change anything. Iimagine her smelling clean, like tea ..."Patrick ... talk to me ... don't be so upset," she is saying."I think it's ... time for me to ... take a good look ... at theworld I've created," I choke, tearfully, ɹnding myself admitting toher, "I came upon ... a half gram of cocaine ... in my armoire last... night." I'm squeezing my hands together, forming one largeɹst, all knuckles white."What did you do with it?" she asks.I place one hand on the table. She takes it."I threw it away. I threw it all away. I wanted to do it," I gasp,"but I threw it away."She squeezes my hand tightly. "Patrick?" she asks, moving herhand up until it's gripping my elbow. When I ɹnd the strength tolook back at her, it strikes me how useless, boring, physicallybeautiful she really is, and the question Why not end up with her?ɻoats into my line of vision. An answer: she has a better bodythan most other girls I know. Another one: everyone isinterchangeable anyway. One more: it doesn't really matter. Shesits before me, sullen but hopeful, characterless, about to dissolveinto tears. I squeeze her hand back, moved, no, touched by herignorance of evil. She has one more test to pass."Do you own a briefcase?" I ask her, swallowing."No," she says. "I don't.""Evelyn carries a briefcase," I mention."She does ...?" Jean asks."And what about a Filofax?""A small one," she admits."Designer?" I ask suspiciously."No."I sigh, then take her hand, small and hard, in mine.... and in the southern deserts of Sudan the heat rises in airlesswaves, thousands upon thousands of men, women, children, roamthroughout the vast bushland, desperately seeking food. Ravagedand starving, leaving a trail of dead, emaciated bodies, they eatweeds and leaves and ... lily pads, stumbling from village tovillage, dying slowly, inexorably; a gray morning in the miserabledesert, grit ɻies through the air, a child with a face like a blackmoon lies in the sand, scratching at his throat, cones of dustrising, ɻying across land like whirling tops, no one can see thesun, the child is covered with sand, almost dead, eyes unblinking,grateful (stop and imagine for an instant a world where someoneis grateful for something) none of the haggard pay attention asthey ɹle by, dazed and in pain (no—there is one who paysattention, who notices the boy's agony and smiles, as if holding asecret), the boy opens and closes his cracked, chapped mouthsoundlessly, there is a school bus in the distance somewhere andsomewhere else, above that, in space, a spirit rises, a door opens,it asks "Why?"—a home for the dead, an inɹnity, it hangs in avoid, time limps by, love and sadness rush through the boy ..."Okay."I am dimly aware of a phone ringing somewhere. In the café onColumbus, countless numbers, hundreds of people, maybethousands, have walked by our table during my silence. "Patrick,"Jean says. Someone with a baby stroller stops at the corner andpurchases a Dove Bar. The baby stares at Jean and me. We stareback. It's really weird and I'm experiencing a spontaneous kind ofinternal sensation, I feel I'm moving toward as well as away fromsomething, and anything is possible.